


with the summer passing by

by tieressian



Series: stay with me, hold my hand [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Domestic Fluff, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hair Brushing, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kamukura Izuru Has Feelings, Kamukura Izuru Is Bad At Feelings, Kissing, Komaeda Nagito As The Servant, Mind Games, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Sick Komaeda Nagito, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, The Biggest Most Awful Most Tragic Event in Human History (Dangan Ronpa), Threesome, Tragic Romance, gender neutral reader, kamukura and reader are divorced parents and nagito is the child they share custody with, someone please help this man, they're adults but it makes sense canonically, this fic becomes more self indulgent by the day, this fic proves my love language is acts of service
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: when society collapses and the world falls into despair, it seems impossible for silly things like love to survive.as always, the ultimate hope defies expectations.(aka, random tales from the end of the world that culminate in the end of yours).
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Reader, Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito, Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito/Reader, Kamukura Izuru/Reader, Komaeda Nagito/Reader
Series: stay with me, hold my hand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090418
Comments: 34
Kudos: 154





	1. reunions

**Author's Note:**

> whoop whoop second part!
> 
> if you're new, welcome! but I definitely recommend you read the previous installation before this one, otherwise you'll be hella confused.
> 
> this work is gonna be a fun little intermission to lead into sdr2. it'll set up a lot of stuff for the future, and its also a really good excuse for me to just write smut and/or mindless fluff. it may be ooc at times, especially for kamukura, but that's not intentional and is more my failings as a writer than anything. please let me know any criticisms you have, and ill be happy to address them!
> 
> also, this reader is meant to be gender neutral! if at any point i accidentally use gendered language, please let me know and ill fix it right away.
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Kamukura reunite during The Tragedy. Emotions are played with, feelings are brought up, and Kamukura gets his first blow job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: violence, blood, suicidal thoughts, smut, attempted mind control??? idk

The end of the world is messy.

It’s chaotic and bloody and terrifying. The common man mourning and howling only to pick up a bat and swear revenge. Mothers weeping as they place a bullet between their babies eyes and then their own. Children suffering and warping and exalting in the streets with fire in their hearts and at their feet. Society bows like metal turned soft over flame, twisted and stretched like taffy into an unrecognizable lump of gristle. A wad of putrid flesh ready to be crushed beneath a designer heel.

You hope it’s interesting enough.

Because all you’ve known since you stepped out of those catacombs is pure, scalding agony. You’re a coward who’s done nothing but flee, flee, flee. Never stalling, never faltering; lest guilt swallow you alive and leave nothing but bones. Ghosts trailing at your heels in an endless echo of _your fault! your fault! your fault!_ that never fades. A clashing orchestral medley of accusations and failures that pile up and crush you beneath their weight. Endless ‘what ifs’ that taunt you from the cosmos like the stars winking out light years too late.

Because The Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History is undeniably, irrevocably your fault.

It was a toppling of dominoes. A delicate click click click that quickly got out of hand, everything tumbling down as you scrambled to pick up the pieces. To stop the chain you set in motion. The chain you set in motion the moment you handed Hinata that damned pen.

It all circles back to Hinata with you.

But Hinata is dead now, long dead. And you’ve come to terms with that in the past year or so, you think. A year of isolation; a year of marinating in your thoughts, your regrets. A year spent alone, grieving for a singular boy amongst the chaos of the apocalypse. Missing another all the while.

Because you foolishly decided to catch feelings for the Ultimate Hope.

Like most things in your life, it started slowly. Then it grabbed you by the hair and dragged you into the depths to drown. Left to rot amongst the silt, chest caving in like a collapsing house. An ache you’ve gotten used to, an ache that never fades. An ache you only realized was there once he walked out the door and left you alone. But agonizing over one's past never does anyone good, so it’s best just to leave it at that. The past.

For the present is far more pressing.

Tension is thick in the air as you lean over the building's edge. The railing creaking beneath your weight as you feel the screws begin to give way. Only the very tips of your toes touching the ground as you lord over the chaos in the streets below. A writhing mass of black and white and speckled red as Monokuma masks surge forward in a brainless hivemind. A spiralling, flexing mob of distant specks like a horde of ants. The constant shifting reminding you morbidly of a twitching amoeba. Fleshy thumps and screeches echoing below as blood and viscera stains the pockmarked pavement.

And for a moment, you entertain the idea of tipping over the edge and falling to the ground. A weightless plummet that sends tingles up your spine. Imagining yourself sprawled out on the concrete, limbs bent at awkward angles and mouth agape, staring up at the smoke filled sky with empty eyes. Beautifully tragic as your body is smashed underfoot and torn asunder.

“How predictable, that I’d find you like this.”

You startle out of that fantasy with a full body shudder. Reeling back and settling on solid ground as your head whips to the side. Jaw clenched tight as you stare at the ghost standing in front of you. Pressing down the ache in your heart like a thumb against a cavity filled tooth. A tight coil loosening traitorously in your chest as you choke on your next inhale.

“Kamukura,” you nod, voice rusty from disuse, “it’s a pleasure to see you.”

He doesn’t answer, and the silence is both so familiar and cloying that it hurts to breathe. His shadow stretching across the ground and touching your toes, accentuating the distance between you. Distance you’re not entirely sure you want to cross.

“And it seems we almost missed each other,” he says monotonously, eyes flicking meaningfully to the edge of the building before returning to you, “what a disappointing way to end things.”

A rueful smile twists your lips as you rest your hand atop the warped railing. One firm push enough to send the section listing off the edge. The metal frame hanging off the side of the building like a bandaid dangling on someone’s wrist. Screws snapping off and falling to the crowd below, dinging against metal helmets as they disappear amongst the horde.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning on it,” you swear, taking a pointed step away from the ledge, “just lost in thought.”

“Suicidal ideation, an expected mindset for the end of the world,” he comments impassively, stepping closer until you’re forced to stray further from the edge, “stop it.”

Your lips twist upwards, “that’s not how it works."

He blinks, hair brushing at his feet where he’s allowed it to grow out. “I’d prefer not to find you dead in the street. It would be...anticlimactic. A boring conclusion to an already dull story.”

“You haven’t changed,” you almost chuckle, the noise breathier than you’d intended. Scraping against your throat like knives against whetstone, “I’m still debating on whether that’s a good thing.”

The small uptick of your lips—you wouldn’t exactly call it a smile—remains even as you soak in his appearance. It’s like you’ve plucked him straight out of your memories and set him in front of you. Static and unchanging even as the world tilts on its axis and smashes against the floor like a china plate. Only the length of his hair and the harsher cut of his cheekbones enough to distinguish this Kamukura and the one of the past.

“You’re upset,” he observes, the mannequin-esque gloss of his eyes still the same as ever.

Your mouth twists and your smile cuts into your cheeks as it slides off your face. Hurt flaring up in your chest like a candle sparking in the breeze.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” your voice dips almost to a whisper, pleasantries dropped like a handful of shattered glass, “for all I knew you were _dead_.”

“Irrational,” he says simply, “foolish, inane, _stupid_ ; I would not die so easily, to think so means you were merely blinded by emotion.”

“So what if I was?” you huff, drawing yourself up as if you could actually stand to intimidate him, “I am not you, Kamukura. I feel things without hindrance.”

His expression shifts minutely, and you can’t help but feel as if you gave something away.

“Even now, you care,” his head cocks slightly to the left as his eyes bore into yours, “I had anticipated this but still...it’s almost surprising.”

“Kamukura, I sacrificed everything just for you to find interest in the world. Arguably, I _ended_ the world for you. Of course I still care.”

“Hm, so that is why you’re up here. Guilt,” he takes another step closer and this time you don’t move away. Something fragile and almost _hopeful_ in a sense clutched in your hands, moments away from shattering, “a useless emotion, considering you have no need for it.”

A pause.

“Are you trying to say it’s not my fault? How reassuring,” you hum, heart giving a half flutter even as you hear the _crunch_ of bones just below, “you’re being uncharacteristically kind today.”

Seconds tick by without an answer, not that you were really expecting one. But with the way Kamukura is backlit by the smoky red of the sky, you can’t help the ominous chill that creeps up your back. Gooseflesh prickling your skin as he moves to cradle your face. Not to comfort, but to hold. A clinical detachment that sends warning bells ringing as his thumb presses against your forehead. A heavy feeling sweeping through you as if his touch was of Midas himself, turning you into a statue of frozen gold.

“You say you’ve sacrificed everything,” he muses, more to himself than anything, “but your memories, your _memories_ still live on within you.” Your stomach sinks like an anchor to the ocean floor. “With memory comes familiarity, and with familiarity comes boredom,” his fingers brush your cheek and you can almost convince yourself it’s affectionate, “I trust you understand where I’m going with this.”

“No...” your words are stumbling, tripping over themselves like a newborn fawn. Terror striking through you as you realize what he’s insinuating. Ultimate Hypnotist, Ultimate Manipulator, _Ultimate Neuroscientist;_ it’d be child’s play for him to reach inside your head and pluck out your memories. Hang them out like laundry and tug them off the line.

“I have done this before, fifteen times to be exact,” he continues unbothered, the rhythmic back and forth of his fingers on your cheek soothing you into a lull, “I don’t remember who and I don’t remember where, for I erased my memories of them as well. But I know we’ll meet again, just as I know I’ll see you again. Regardless of whether or not we remember each other.”

With a monumental effort, your arm lifts and you close your fingers around his wrist. Every movement slow and stilted as if you’re swimming through concrete. Heavy weights pulling down on your eyelids as you fight to keep them open. “Our history is...what gives you interest,” you whisper, words slurring and bleeding into one another, “if you erase that...there will be nothing, and I’ll just be...just be a face in the crowd.”

He doesn’t falter, not even as your fingers wrinkle the cuff of his suit. “I’ve calculated every course of action, this is the best option.”

“You can’t...you can’t…” you protest, cursing yourself for falling for someone as uncertain as Kamukura. A ray of sunlight you can never catch in your mortal palm, “Kamukura, _please._ ”

You’re not sure what convinces him. But one way or another, his hands pull away from your face and clarity rushes in like a barrage of ice water. Leaving you gasping for air and trembling like a half drowned kitten.

“Hm, I almost didn’t expect you to beg,” he comments, something somber in his expression that you can’t quite name, “though it was for naught, as I wasn’t actually planning on continuing.”

It’s a crude, but necessary wake up call. That you’re nothing but a marionette made to dance for Kamukura’s amusement. The ups and lows of your turbulent life something for him to observe and toss aside when he sees fit. It hurts, yet it’s comforting. To be easily slotted into place with no expectations but to entertain. And maybe it’s because you’re so lonely, maybe it’s because you’re desperate to avoid the slippery slope that leads to despair; but the reservations you had a year ago mean nothing to you now. And selfishly, _selfishly,_ all you want is to feel. To feel _him._ Even if just for a moment.

“Go to hell,” you say oh-so eloquently, surging forward with both anger and purpose. And as if he predicted it—which, of course, he has—he meets you halfway. Lips connecting to yours almost painfully as your hands move to cup his jaw. Fingers threading through his hair and tracing the scar across the base of his skull. The incision you yourself had mapped out a lifetime ago.

He pushes you away but doesn’t break the hold. Hands falling to your waist as his eyes bore into yours and his gaze goes lidded, “I didn’t anticipate this, at least not so soon.” A pause. “This says more about you than anything else.”

“Just kiss me, I’m not in the mood for mind games,” you interrupt, triumph singing through you as he shockingly obliges. A hot press of mouths that leaves something fluttering in your stomach. Stumbling over your feet as he backs you up and presses you against a wall you hadn’t even realized was there. Not once disconnecting your lips as he pins you with perfect precision.

“How unfortunate, to know just how to ruin you despite never having touched you before,” he murmurs, only the underlying roughness of his voice betraying what you’ve been doing, “it should be boring, yet...”

You jerk as his leg pushes up between your thighs. The discordant chaos of the world around you fading away as he grips your jaw and forces your head up. Kissing a trail down your neck with an eagerness you may just be projecting.

“Ah, so that’s why society is so fixated on sex. So simple and banel in theory, but much more—” he tugs down the neckline of your shirt and sinks his teeth into your collarbone, “ _—intoxicating_ in practice.”

“It can be addicting,” you hum distantly, feeling something coil low in your gut as your hips grind against his thigh, “especially in a world as despondent as this.” Your brain sparks and short circuits, words tumbling from your lips as his tongue drags across your skin, “hey, let me suck you off.”

“Hm, I suppose that would be pleasurable,” he thinks for a moment, “fine.”

Your positions switch in a blink. With you dropping to your knees and shifting forward until you’re situated between Kamukura’s legs. The man himself backed against the wall as he blinks down at you with empty eyes. Nervously, you fumble with the loops of his belt and tug his pants down over his thighs. Fishing his half hard cock out of his boxers and gaping open mouthed as you take it in. You’re fairly certain dicks aren’t meant to be _pretty_ , but you’d say his meets the criteria. Flushed red at the tip and scaldingly warm in your palm.

Tentatively, you open your mouth and let your tongue loll out past the pout of your lips. Licking a flat trail from base to head in an effort to bring him to full hardness. It’s a strange thing to be doing, but it feels right somewhere in the deep, primal recesses of your brain to lave your tongue over his cock and bring the tip into your mouth. A pleasant weight against your tongue that makes you shift your thighs together. You may have no clue what you’re doing, but you make up for it with a burning eagerness and a sharp learning curve. Saliva welling up in your mouth as you move to swallow him deeper, fighting back the intrinsic urge to gag.

You start as you feel him grip the back of your skull. Making a gruff noise in the back of his throat as he pushes you further down on his cock, clearly impatient with the pace you’ve set. He’s silent other than a few sparse huffs and sighs, no encouragement to be sure you’re doing something right. No guidance except the hand at the back of your head and the pulse of his now stiff erection.

It’s exactly as you imagined.

Your throat spasms as his cock bumps against the back of your tongue. Swallowing him down to the root and breathing out harshly through your nose, nestled uncomfortably amongst the springy thatch of his pubic hair. He gives no sign, no warning, only a twitch of his hips and a grunt as he comes down your throat. Leaving you coughing and sputtering as you reel back and heave onto the concrete. Tongue lolling out as you taste the salty bitterness of his come.

“Calm yourself,” he orders, tucking himself away as he lowers down to a crouch. Hair fanning out in a cloak that shrouds the two of you from the world, “I believe this is when I’m expected to return the favor.”

The end of the world is messy. The end of the world is dark and terrifying and _despairing_.

But now, now that your head is fuzzy and overtaken with the thought of a single man. Now that you’re not so dreadfully, awfully alone (if only for a moment). Now that you’re not doomed to die despondent and forgotten.

You can almost bear it.


	2. indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Kamukura meet up in the abandoned suburbs. Showers are taken, hair is brushed; and Enoshima Junko’s magnum opus is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied abuse, implied starvation

Humans are selfish by nature.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, the realization that the brain is wired to take and take and take in pursuit of an addicting surge of chemicals. A slave to the primal desires modern society has tried so hard to repress. To stamp down into nothing under the pretenses of a cleaner, better world. Carnality shifting and donning a cloak of materialism and consumerism and a thousand other -isms that would take forever to list.

But the niceties of the status quo have long since crumbled alongside the world itself. Unleashing those hedonistic desires like a feral dog that was never quite tamed. Some are violent, some are gorey; some are too taboo even for the most debased of survivors. But wants are wants, and when there are no eyes to judge you, there’s no reason not to indulge.

And really, compared to other horrors you’ve been witness to, your desires are incredibly tame. Wholesome, even. For misery loves company, so who can blame you for tailing after Kamukura Izuru?

Though really, it’s better described as you roughing it alone with Kamukura appearing every so often to indulge in his own desires (does he even have desires, wants? Is he capable of such a thing?) A quick crossing of paths that lasts a brief second, leaving you painfully aware of just how damn  _ lonely  _ you are. Falling into him all the same, desperate for any sense of reprieve. Even if it hurts more than anything when he inevitability leaves.

“You could’ve knocked, at least,” you say blandly, staring down the Ultimate Hope himself as he stands at the opposite end of the room. A shadowy apparition that blends into the tattered wallpaper of the ransacked living room. The fact that Kamukura followed you into the decimated suburbs is both amusing and unnerving. The fact that he’d found your shelter out of the hundreds of cookie cutter houses making it lean more towards the latter.

“That would’ve been pointless,” he responds, equally nonplussed as he makes no move to step out into the open, “you would not have answered.”

You sigh, making the first move as always as you step up to meet him. Eyes flicking up and down his form as you take him in after an eternity of separation. Lips turning downward as you notice the ends of his hair splayed across the dusty floorboards.

“That cannot be sanitary,” you comment, outstretching a hand to run through his hair—waiting until he gives you a cat-slow blink of permission—and startling as it catches almost immediately on a knot, “when was the last time you brushed this?”

He watches passively as you extract your hand from the unruly mat. Carefully maneuvering your fingers as to not tear out a single strand. “I do not brush it,  _ she  _ does.”

Bitter sympathy wells within as you pick apart the meaning of his words. You know who Kamukura associates with, you know who the dreaded  _ she  _ is. Can picture the knife's edge of her smile, the cherry red of her fingernails as they parse through his hair and tug a brush through the mess. Harsh and unforgiving as she yanks mercilessly at the roots, his head rolling back and exposing the vulnerable pulse of his throat.

“Hm, of course she would,” you huff. You’ve never met the woman who crushed the world in her palm like a delicate flower, but you’ve heard plenty. Some from Kamukura, some from word of mouth, most from the TVs and billboards that stream  _ Despair Despair Despair  _ on a constant loop. You hate her hate her hate her with the strength of a thousand suns.

Kamukura calls her interesting.

“Of course she would,” he echoes. He does that sometimes, echoes and repeats words and phrases that spark intrigue.  _ Apotheosis _ ,  _ solicitude _ ,  _ desultory _ ; he curls his tongue around the words as if to taste them. To wring interest from language itself until even speaking is a dull endeavor.

You hum noncommittally, taking a strand of his hair and rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Taking note of the gritty, unclean feeling against your skin. You bet it’s even worse at the ends.

“Come with me,” you order, turning out of the room and pausing in step to check that he’s complied. Hair standing straight at the back of your neck as you spot him lurking a few steps behind. Stock still as if he’d simply teleported. You shake your head and dismiss the uncanniness like water off a duck's back. The invisible weight of his gaze pressing into your nape like a spiraling drill. A pinch against your skin that spreads into a blanketed weight.

The walk upstairs is silent, the echo of your footsteps sounding off like cannons as the stairs threaten to give beneath your weight. It’s as if Kamukura isn’t even there, the only sign that he’d heeded your order being the soft  _ click _ as the door to the master bath closes behind the two of you. Your eyes meeting his as you unashamedly pull your shirt over your head and kick off your pants, leaving you in just your underwear. 

He hardly even blinks. Unperturbed by your partial nudity as you move to turn on the shower head, water streaming in a weak pulse as a disarmingly metallic smell fills the air. You’re fairly certain the water supply isn’t radioactive, but you still look to Kamukura for assurance. The man disinterestedly eyeing the stream before returning his unaffected gaze to you.

“It is safe,” he says simply, “there is only a twenty seven point five percent chance of there being lethal toxins in the supply line.”

“Lovely,” you clip, motioning brusquely for him to take off his clothes as well. Taking the garments from him and neatly folding them atop the toilet. Soon enough, he’s at the same level of undress as you. The two of you shucking off the last of your undergarments as you step under the spray, Kamukura following without complaint as you usher him along.

It’s almost amusing, the way the flowing cape of his hair flattens beneath the stream of water. The intimidation factor of his flat gaze severely downplayed by the scraggly wet hair sticking to his cheek.

“You need to take care of yourself, Kamukura. Even if it bores you,” you scold, tucking a wayward strand behind his ear after he bows his head in permission. Gently combing your fingers through and working out the worst of the tangles, “the bare minimum isn’t enough.” It’s a miracle he even remembers to eat. He’s almost like a child in that sense, not taking meals unless someone forces him to. Unaware of just how hungry he is until he can’t move. Or maybe it’s intentional. Chasing after the hunger pains just to feel something, to flirt with death only to swerve away at the last moment.

“I make no promises,” he says dully, not exactly inspiring any confidence with that lackluster response.

A long suffering sigh passes your lips at his answer. Choosing not to speak as you squirt some—likely expired—shampoo into your palm. The soft scent of vanilla curling in the air.

“Turn around, please,” you request softly, pretending not to notice his subtle trepidation as he turns his back to you. Incredibly stiff beneath you as your hands carefully coast into his hair. Working the suds up into a lather as you rub it into the roots. Raking your fingers through the strands as you rinse the bubbles out under the chilled spray.

He doesn’t relax, you don’t think he has it in him. But his shoulders drop as tension ebbs from his taut spine. The closest thing to at ease you’ve seen him since...ever, really.

You bite back a smile at the thought and gather some sweet smelling conditioner in your palm. Running it through the snarled ends of his hair to try and tame the mess. Winding a rope of hair around your wrist and chuckling to yourself at how much it’s grown.

“Have you thought about cutting this?” You hum, letting go of the strand and watching it slap wetly against his back.

“No.”

His voice is firm, brokering no room for argument as you make a quiet noise of assent. Cursing the lack of soap as your mind wanders to the past occupants of this house. A family, perhaps. A mother calling out to her husband as he leaves for work, ‘don’t forget to buy that soap!’

It seems they never got to.

And with that dreary thought, you turn off the faucet and wring out most of the water from Kamukura’s hair. Tossing him a moth eaten towel as you throw your own over your shoulders, ruffle drying his soaking mop of hair with the remaining rags as you step out of the tub. The two of you move in silence, simply tugging on your underwear before padding out into the master bedroom. Sitting up against the headboard as Kamukura situates himself right in front of you.

You appreciate him humoring you, or maybe he just doesn’t bother to stop you. But either way, you find yourself sectioning his hair into parts and running a ragged brush through it. Gently combing out the tangles as water soaks into the ruffled bed sheets. Wincing in sympathy as it catches harshly on a knot.

“Are you alright?”

“It does not hurt,” he says, tone bland yet somewhat reassuring, “how boring.”

Your movements hesitate as you make your way closer to the ends, “do you want it to hurt?”

A beat passes, rivulets of water streaming from his raven locks and down your wrist.

“No, I’ll be bored either way,” he admits, turning his head so his eyes meet yours in his peripheries, 

“What a surprise,” you huff, running the brush over one section of hair and preening as it goes smoothly through, “what doesn’t bore you? I know I’m already falling quite a ways behind.”

He blinks, slow and catlike as his eyelashes brush together and part. “You’re still caught up on that, I see,” he turns so that he’s facing forward again. Your spine stiffening as you remember the circumstances of your first reunion,“no matter, in four weeks you’ll already have forgiven me.”

“For that, I’m waiting an extra week out of spite.”

“I know, that’s why I said four weeks instead of three.”

You shake your head in exasperation, distractedly braiding a few strands of his hair before returning to the task at hand. “You’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve heard,” his voice dips slightly, “though to answer your question, there is nothing that doesn’t bore me. Even Enoshima’s magnum opus seems horribly dull.”

You grit your teeth and gnaw on the gummy underside of your cheek. Untangling a particularly complicated knot with your fingers as the bitterness of  _ her _ name washes over you. Gripping the handle of the brush until it digs painfully into your palm.

“And what, exactly, is Enoshima’s magnum opus?”

Your breath catches in your throat as Kamukura turns around to fully meet your gaze. Thousands of horrid,  _ despairing  _ possibilities flickering in your head like a film reel on loop. Tension about ready to snap as red eyes glare and words spill forth like bullets from a gun.

“A killing game.”


	3. regicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Hope’s Peak killing game comes to a close, betrayals come to light; and you finally set off on your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not feeling too hot about this one, but gotta get stuff rolling
> 
> wooo conflict!
> 
> cw: mentions of blood, mentions of death

It’s awfully in character for Enoshima to bet all her chips on something so dastardly simple. One would expect something flashy for the final hurrah, in your face like a plume of blood soaked peacock feathers. But Ultimate Despair has always dealt in unpredictabilities, like pulling out Old Maid in the midst of a poker match. So really, this isn’t that off brand for the Queen of Despair.

Because it’s the little things that hurt the most. The sharp edge of a hangnail digging into your skin, a pointed rock stabbing into the arch of your foot; the whittling away of hope like a bar of soap in a Boy Scout’s hands. And it may not be as monumental as the bombings, or the riots, or the massacres.

But the Hope’s Peak Killing Game is by no means insignificant.

It’s quite devastating, really. To watch as the hopes of the future crumble from the inside out. Fingers turned to one another as they’re molded into the machinations of their own destruction. Their struggles and tumult plastered up on flickering, plasma tvs for the whole world to see. Aired on the radio for everyone to listen to, to hear their death rattle screams and the splatter of blood. Awful, just awful.

But much like watching a car crash, you can’t bear to look away. Peering in a broken shop window as you crowd up to the glass, a boxy television with crooked antennae streaming what may very well be the last of the trials. The tinny voice of Naegi Makoto streaming through crackly, dust ridden speakers.

“Who do you believe will triumph?” You say aloud, unbothered by how Kamukura has materialized at your shoulder. Eyes following yours to the warped screen of the television.

“Ultimate Luck,” he replies, voice still bland as ever even after treasonously denouncing his ‘leader.’ Hair tossed over his shoulder as it no longer drags on the ground (he’d allowed you to cut it so that it didn’t trail behind him like a bridal veil).

“And why would you say that? He is faltering,” you point to the boy who stumbles over his words. Trying to voice his thoughts to damn the mastermind amongst them.

“He’s shown himself to be somewhat capable, or at the very least surrounded by capable people,” a half breath that hangs heavy above you, “I assumed he’d be of the first to die.”

“Ah, that makes two of us,” you hum in agreement, reeling over the fact that Kamukura has admitted fault. Over someone like _Naegi_ no less. “Look now!”

The connection blurs and skips as a dramatic cloud of smoke plumes in the trial room. Curling away in wisps to reveal the intimidatingly cut figure of Enoshima Junko. Hands planted on her hips as she throws her head back in a pitchy cackle. Proudly declaring herself the mastermind of this whole mess.

“Predictable. She would never pass up on the despair of her plans falling to ruin,” Kamukura intones, “how disappointing”

You make a quiet noise of what could be interpreted as sympathy. Worrying your lower lip between your teeth as tensions skyrocket in the depressingly empty trial room. An off handed comment made by Enoshima sending your whole world tumbling down like a knife through a tower of cards.

“Kamukura…” your words stick to the roof of your mouth like sandpaper catching on ragged wood. Watching as Enoshima boasts about stealing years worth of memories, “please tell me she developed memory wiping technology from scratch.”

It’s not that far fetched. She’s intelligent, you’ll give her that. Has allied herself with formidable pawns that’d bend over backwards for her, although their brains have been scorched by despair like eggs on Floridian pavement. It’s leagues better than the alternative. That someway, somehow, she got her hands on what was once yours and twisted ignorance into something totally malicious.

His silence is enough of an answer.

“... _shit,_ ” the heel of your palm presses to your forehead as you fight to ground yourself. Trying so hard not to show weakness as pure panic bubbles beneath your skin. The Kamukura Project was supposed to _die._ Fade into obscurity with only the two of you remembering the horrors. Your research was already warped by those at Hope's Peak, and the fact that Enoshima got her hands on it as well is too much to stomach. Bitter self hatred pressing up against the back of your throat like bile. “How could I...How could _you_ let her?”

“She found it on her own, I saw no need to stop her,” he replies tonelessly, still not bothering to make eye contact.

“Of course, _of course,_ ” you bite the inside of your cheek until blood blooms across your tongue. You knew what you were getting into that day on the rooftop, so why does it still _hurt?_ Is it too much to ask for him to once, at least _once_ , take action. To not be a shadowed bystander watching everything unfurl. There’s an inherent sense of betrayal that rears its head. Betrayal that you just have to get used to, get used to taking a back seat to what truly gives him interest. A long suppressed self-preservation instinct that screams for you to _run._

Because you’ve been too complacent, you realize. Shaking off any transgressions like water off a duck's back. And maybe you’re being irrational, but you can’t stand to be near him for another second. A tsunami wave of emotion that suffocates you beneath its foaming crest.

So before your brain can catch up with your body, you’ve turned and set off in the opposite direction. Not even caring where you’re going as long as it’s _away._

(A crackling _boom_ echoes across the world. A squelch of blood that ebbs into heavy, weighted silence. Your footsteps the only sound as quiet pervades the streets.

The Queen of Despair is dead).


	4. inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a stranger is introduced, Kamukura sucks at reconciliations, and you now have two idiots to take care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, this was originally going to be one huge chapter but i had to split it in two for pacings sake. oops.
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: gory metaphors

_ Away _ turns out to be Towa City.

It’s rather embarrassing, in retrospect. To think you were so blinded by the possibility of refuge that you didn’t question the barrenness of the streets. Didn’t question why the bridge was teeming with hordes upon hordes of Monokumas. Why it was so easy to get in but no one was coming out.

But what’s done is done. You’ve made your bed—with a mattress stuffed with nails and bricks—and now you must lie in it. Must accept that Towa City is your home for the foreseeable future.

And you stake your claim with the quiet ferocity of a lurking panther. Your territory plotted out and untouchable in this fragile society of survivors. A clear message to all, that you’re not one to be trifled with. It’s a comfortable, if not lonely, life; considering that it’s quite literally the apocalypse.

And god, is it lonely. The apartment complex you’d chosen to shelter in left as a single, solitary island amongst the chaos. The apartment you’d picked out of the dozens even more so, cramped and dark with an ever present stench of mildew that soaks through the ceiling. The windows blocked out with bookcases and drawers and thickly layered sheets of newspaper. Bleeding headlines screaming about riots and death and massacres, a few sacred issues from before the tragedy talking about baseball games and charity events. Not even a glance of sunlight can peek through, orangey red hues pressing up against the glass only to be whisked away by clouds of brackish smoke. Leaving you to waste away in a darkness of your own design.

Yet you don’t regret it, don’t regret drawing a line in the sand and cutting your losses. Because you’ve never been good with boundaries. Never been good at choosing for yourself, never been good at keeping your heart locked in your birdcaged chest. Tucked behind the bars instead of dripping on a proffered silver platter. A bomb and a hairbrush and research papers clutched in Enoshima’s acrylic claws. Pieces of yourself sloughed off and passed around, red dripping flesh as you’re left to bleed. 

Alone.

And you tell yourself you don’t miss him. Curdling lies that twist your stomach and bubble sickly beneath your skin. Rib cage quaking as cacophonous melodies are plucked from its arching calcium like a xylophone. A small, berated part of your brain wishing Kamukura would visit. Wishing he’d make an effort to find you (because he can. He can. Plucking you out from the masses like a squirming bug beneath an upturned stone). Wishing life was easier. Wishing the world never collapsed in on itself like a rotting corpse. Wishing you’d taken that goddamned pen out of Hinata’s hand and tossed him out the door. Told him talent is nothing but a farce and there are things worth  _ more— _

Your reunion is anticlimactic, insignificant; dare I say it,  _ boring.  _ The Ultimate Hope standing at your doorstep like nothing had transpired between you. A length of chain knotted around his fingers as he gives it a quick tug. A wheezing gag following the motion and prompting your eyes to dart to the other end of the loop. Widening slightly at what you find.

“Kamukura, that man is wearing a leash.”

He does not deign that observation with a response. Sweeping into the room without hesitation as the collared man dogs at his heels. You can do nothing but stare, off put by a dynamic that sets your teeth uncomfortably on edge. The stranger is tall, gangly; yet he seems so small as he simpers besides Kamukura. Bones wrapped in skin with the thinnest cushion of flesh. A shock of wispy white hair exploding from his scalp like a bleached tumbleweed. The skin of his cheeks is sunken and sallow, with permanent divots curled around the ends of his lips. Smile lines that fold over each other like crumpled paper. He shakes with roiling, held back mania that makes your blood freeze up. A tattered sweater hanging off his shoulders with frayed, burnt edges that he rolls between anxious fingertips. A constant movement that you pick up on as misty green eyes bore into yours with morbid curiosity. Not as piercing as Kamukura’s, but far more discomfiting as they pick you apart like a vivisection pinned to an observation board.

“I do not appreciate you bringing a remnant into my home,” you state blandly, eyes cutting from the newcomer and back to Kamukura, “I must say, if this is your idea of a reconciliation it’s a rather poor one.”

You recognize the man, of course. And while he may not be as prolific as Princess Nevermind, nor as intimidating as Kuzuryuu or Tanaka; there is an air of  _ wrongness  _ about him that betrays him for what he is.  _ Despair.  _ Wrapped up in a meek exterior like burst blood vessels beneath a watercolor blur of bruises. Yet there’s a familiarity you can’t shake as his eyes dart from you to Kamukura and back to you again. Discomfort settling into your marrow like a poisoned ache.

“This is not an apology,” Kamukura clips, a tilt to his chin that makes you feel infuriatingly small, “it is nothing more than a exchange.”

Your lips part as you move to demand an explanation. Faltering as the chain link loop is thrust into your hand and pinches at your skin. Even the man at the other end of the leash looks startled. Eyes wide as trembling pupils lock desperately onto his previous…owner(?) A swirling mix of contempt and anxiety that makes pity spike through your heart.

“What the hell,” you murmur to yourself, working the chain between your fingers before your eyes dart up and narrow in on Kamukura’s retreating back, “don’t you dare leave just yet.”

He doesn’t stop, though he pauses at the doorway and turns to the two of you for a final address, “I’ll be back within time, watch him until then.”

The door closes and a string of muffled curses fall from your lips. Remembering you have a guest right after you spew the most unflattering names you can come up with.

“My apologies,” you sigh, moving to rub your temples only to realize the chain is still clutched in your hand, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name? We may as well get acquainted.”

His mouth twists into a gaping smile. Tongue darting across tombstone teeth as he ducks his head into a submissive bow.

“My name is nothing important,” his voice is a low rasp, like the grinding of bones when the cartilage has worn away, “I am only known as what I am, a lowly servant.”

You make a low hum in the back of your throat, offering your own name in exchange as you usher him further inside. Something almost like recognition flashing in his gaze as his manic shaking grows more frenzied. Nerves dance across your skin as you debate on what to do with this stranger now in your care. Spite and curiosity at war as you mull over whether to kick this man to the curb or allow him to stay. You refuse to just keel over to Kamukura’s demands, but now there’s a whole other person in the mix. A whole other person to complicate things.

“So you’re called Servant, then,” you guess, assumption proven correct when his head bobs up and down, “and what would your relationship with Kamukura be?”

“Aha! I wouldn’t dare to call it a  _ relationship _ ,” he laughs as if you’d said something funny, “no no, I am simply his property.” His lips twist into a harsh cut of a smile, as if he can’t decide whether that’s something he’s truly happy about.

“And how did that come about? He is not one to keep...much of anything, really,” he certainly didn’t try to keep you.

“Oh, Kamukura-kun didn’t choose me! I’d be quite upset if he did,” you can’t interpret what he means by those words, “I was...hm... _ inheritance,  _ would be the word for it. Constipulations of Enoshima’s final will!”

“A will he went along with? Strange.”

“Strange indeed!” A few breathless giggles punctuate the end of his sentence, “I was hoping he’d refuse but, well, who am I to say no to the Ultimate Hope?” His lips curl almost into a sneer at those words. “Eheh, even if it’s disgustingly artificial, even if his talent is little more than a lie, I’ll follow Kamukura-kun to the ends of the earth!”

He throws his arms up with manic gusto. Chain rustling slightly as he sways from one foot to the other like a sailor balancing on a stormy deck. Tremoring minutely as if that simple movement is enough to exhaust him.

“Because the despair of his existence, the despair he leaves in his wake will give way to the most glorious of hopes like waves breaking at the shore!” You understand where those dips at the corner of his mouth came from. For his smile is so painfully wide you can quite literally see his lips split and bleed, “so in that way, he truly is the Ultimate Hope! The most ultimate of stepping stones to a greater future!”

You blink. Once, twice, three times before you find your words again.

“We’ve met before, I remember now,” you realize, “in the courtyard before our first class.” It’s a vague, fuzzy memory. Only the blur of his hair and the reverence of his words truly sticking with you after all this time.

His smile grows impossibly wider. “Wow, to think you remembered someone as insignificant as me after only one meeting, how amazing! Typical of an ultimate of your caliber.” He drops his arms and tilts his head, tapping his chin with his index finger, “Ultimate Neuroscientist, right? My memory may be failing me, but I’ve made a point to remember the kindest person I’ve met in my loathsome life!”

“Kindest person…” the words taste strange in your mouth, especially considering the fleetingness of your first and only conversation. Mostly consisting of him talking at you as you nodded and listened and spoke here and there. He was...polite, at the time, you can remember that much. Overzealous and shameless in a way that made those walking past give you a wide berth. But he was...normal, almost. Nothing like this despair corrupted shade before you now, “Servant, what happened to you?”

“Ha, I shouldn’t have expected you to remember my name. It wasn’t very memorable, horrendous, really,” he doesn’t seem too upset about it, though his face is strained beneath a failing smile, “it makes things easier, though. That boy is dead. It’s best you forget about him.”

You really don’t think you can. The blank space where his name should be haunting you as you wrack your brain for clues.

“Very well,” you lie, “now, back to the matter at hand.” You lift the chain still wound around your palm meaningfully, “do you know why Kamukura left you here?”

His lips purse as blood wells at the corners, “Kamukura-kun does many useless things I don’t understand. But I’m in no place to question him! Usually I just wait where he leaves me for him to come back. But today he dropped me off here! With you! What a strange act of kindness for a cold individual such as Kamukura-kun.”

You wouldn’t exactly call it kindness, though you’re not sure what else you would call it. Scheming, probably.

“Now, I can’t help but wonder what  _ your  _ relationship with Kamukura-kun could be?” His lips curl into a mockingly innocent smile, leaning into the chain as you unconsciously tighten your grip, “I apologize for such insolence, but I couldn’t help but notice the... _ animosity _ .”

You blink in face of his twisted grin. Not letting his words get to you as you go with the simplest, most honest answer.

“Complicated. It’s...complicated.”

And that’s how things remain, complicated.

Endlessly complicated. For in the end, almost an entire week passes before Kamukura returns. Pristine as ever with the exception of the tangled ends of his hair, the strands having grown out since the last time you saw him. A ghost in the doorway, not even his shadow passing over the threshold as he creeps inside.

It’s pin drop silent, with you quietly toiling away at Servant’s sweater as he sits at your feet (he’d refused a thousand times over to sit on equal footing. Content to kneel beside you and rest his head on your knee when he was feeling particularly bold). The understuffed couch sinking beneath your weight as you work to darn a particularly stubborn hole at the collar. Obediently patient, Servant tugs the black leather jacket you’d found tighter around his bare shoulders. The cuffs already worn and indented with the pattern of his molars, the remnant distractedly gnawing on the material as he stares into the distance with hazy eyes.

You glance up upon noticing Kamukura’s arrival. His polished leather shoes coming into your field of vision as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. You want to yell, to scream; to berate him for dumping a whole, multifaceted, complex  _ human being _ into your care without a moments notice. But the moment is fragile, and Servant is the closest thing to calm you’ve seen him since he got here (he spits words and laughs and goes on spiraling tangents that loop and twirl until he’s hung up in a noose of his own making. Clutching himself and doubling over as his frail legs give out, helplessly weak despite the quivering energy constantly coursing through him. He’s silent, now. Hazy and floaty as he tends to get between his fits. Almost docile in the way he blinks up at you with watery, cow like eyes and a curling grin that can almost be called endearing. Compulsively chewing the cuff of his sleeve as saliva wets the material. An unconscious notion that sets off warning signs in the logical part of your mind). So you let it be, and keep your voice hushed.

“You’re back,” you say softly, though your tone is anything but. Returning your gaze to the sweater as you tie off the final thread with your teeth, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He’s silent, and thus you have your answer.

“Fine,” your words are clipped, and you feel Servant stir from his daze as he realizes who is here. Startling back into normalcy—or the closest thing to it—as his posture straightens and his eyes clear, “but don’t  _ ever  _ do that again. We almost starved because of your spontaneity.”

And it’s true. You barely had enough food for you to last a few more days, let alone last two a whole week. It was Servant’s luck that allowed you to survive (and it was his luck that got his sweater torn to shreds, with no other adequate clothing on hand).

“You had no obligation to help him.”

“I wasn’t about to put a man out on the streets. Especially  _ these  _ streets, regardless of who they were.”

You can almost trick yourself into thinking he feels guilty. The pause between your statement and now a gaping chasm that holds a wealth of meaning. Meaning you don’t particularly care to interpret.

You sigh. “In the future, warn me. Prepare me. Just  _ let me know. _ ”

He blinks, slow and unbothered. “And what makes you think there will be a future?”

Another long, long sigh. “You’re obviously planning something, and I sincerely doubt you’ll stop it. Whatever  _ it  _ is.”

Another pause. No words exchanged as you silently hand Servant his sweater and he moves to pull it on. Taking off his jacket and throwing it back over his shoulders once the sweater is in place. His self-deprecating, grateful babbling the only sound as you carefully take hold of his chain and hand it off to Kamukura.

And that seems to be it. Kamukura swanning out of the room with Servant toddling behind him, moments away from leaving before you finally muster up the will to speak.

“And for the love of god, take care of yourself,” you call after them, “shower, brush your damn hair,  _ eat.  _ Because Kamukura, if you don’t, he won’t. And I’m not taking care of  _ two  _ children.”

The door closes, silence reigns.

And you finally understand Kamukura’s plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry y’all. im too much of a nagito simp so he’s a love interest now. but no love triangle i promise. why fight over who dates who when we can all date each other?
> 
> also, there’s a bit of canon divergence so let me explain. lowkey au territory but shh
> 
> so basically, the woh aren’t here yet. kinda foreshadowed with how chaotic the city is becoming, but they’re not here. nagito still has both his hands (for now). and he’s still a servant because that’s all he was to the other ultimate despairs
> 
> any questions you might have ill be free to answer, i can’t help but feel this chapter was confusing and vague


	5. prometheus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Servant tells a story, Kamukura holds your hand (almost), and steps are taken towards a--selfishly--brighter future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied again. The original chapter has now been split up into three parts, so 2/3 done yayyy. And now that kamukoma is starting to be slipped in, its gonna be tagged. so hey everyone ig, hope I don't fuck up too badly.
> 
> Also, I just finished a full play through of udg. and the most self indulgent thought popped into my head, so this story has been lengthened by another chapter or so. Sorry.
> 
> Nevertheless, I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: slight gore, threats of violence, mentions of cancer, dementia outbursts (nagito's sick as hell y'all)

Or at the very least, you  _ think  _ you do.

Because nothing is absolute when it comes to Kamukura. Everything flipped topsy turvy until you’re swearing up is down and left is right. You could spend hours plotting out his motivations--a task as impossibly monumentous as climbing Mount Everest with toothpicks--only to find that instead of scaling the peak, you’ve just been digging down into the earth.

You could take Kamukura at his word. Trust that when he says you’re just to watch over Servant, that that’s the full extent of things. Occam’s razor, the simplest explanation should not always be disregarded. And layers upon layers of complexity could be nothing more than projections of your own messed up imagination. Though it would be...disappointing, if that’s all there is to it.

Or maybe this is a gift, of sorts. An olive branch with tousled white hair and crazed laughter. Or perhaps...a pet. Servant does quite literally have a leash round his neck, and you’re certain he wouldn’t object to something so dehumanizing (though that’s a sad enough thought on its own). Besides, it’s a generous notion that Kamukura would care whether or not isolation drives you mad. And even if it’s just Servant; someone, anyone, is good enough for your brain to reset the metaphorical clock of insanity.

Or it may just be a misguided way of reaching out. Fleeting catches of conversation as you pass Servant’s chain from one hand to the other, an attempt at redemption sullied by his own hubris. You can count on one hand the amount of times Kamukura has admitted fault, and you’ve never heard him so much as utter an “I’m sorry.” So of course he’d go for the most roundabout, subtle route for earning back your affections. He’s never been one to make his emotions clear, what little he has. So a middle man shouldn’t be too much of a surprise, even one as enigmatic as Servant.

And the remnant certainly is a character, to say the very least. Mania swelling like the tides as he trips and toddles like Alice through Wonderland. Wide eyed and bumbling with a knife's edge of beatific intelligence that cuts through the heavy haze that clouds his eyes. A drooling smile that spits a bubbling miasma of vitriol and sacrament, hymnals of hope and despair like a buzzing swarm of flies. He’s a black hole you’re hopelessly drawn into, wondering if there will be light waiting at the end. Though you know there definitely won’t be.

But if there’s one constant in all this turmoil, it’s the weight of Servant’s chain in your palm. Not to guide or tug, but to alleviate the constant pull of gravity on his aching neck.

“Have you heard the tale of Prometheus?” Servant asks, turning to face you as the chain winds around his throat at the motion. Voice echoing throughout the barren streets as you carefully untangle him from the knot.

You make a quick shushing noise in admonishment, more than aware of the types of people to wander these streets so late. Kamukura may have gotten better at giving you ample warning before dropping off his pet, but there’s no accounting for Servant’s errant luck cycle. Meaning that emergency supply runs are a frequent occurrence whenever Servant is around.

“Eheh, my apologies,” he giggles like he hasn’t just put your lives at risk, “a leech like me, endangering you just to blabber on about nothing…how despicable.”

“Oh, stop that,” you huff, fixing him with a reprimanding glare, “please, tell me about this Prometheus.”

He shivers beneath your glare as his hands clutch at his sides. Gripping his sleeves until his knuckles shake and go white. “Ah, well, it’s another creation tale! One of Ancient Greece, actually. About how the great titan Prometheus took clay from a river bed and crafted man in his image. Breathing life into the little husk and thus, mankind was born.” He does a celebratory little wave and sets off down the street, so wrapped up in his own words that he doesn’t realize how he’s now dragging you along. “But all was not well, for despair plagued humanity as they froze in the night. The gods warmed by the hearth they refused to share.” He reaches the climax of the story with a wide, sweeping gesture of his arms, “so Prometheus stole away a bit of that flame for mankind’s sake, and that hope spread across the world as humanity rejoiced!” His face twists and darkens like a flickering lamp post plunging into darkness, “but the gods were not happy with Prometheus’ transgressions, so they chained him to a rock as punishment. And every day, an eagle came and ate his forever regenerating liver. A despairing ending to what should have been a hopeful story.”

“How morbid,” your nose scrunches up at the thought.

“Most myths of that nature are!” His voice turns cheery despite the previous malice in his tone.

“So, why are you telling me this tale?” You wonder, pausing in step as he does the same. A sly smirk upturning his pinched lips, “surely there’s a reason for it.”

“Because it’s a metaphor for your very situation,” he says in a hushed whisper, as if it’s something shameful no one else should hear, “you, Prometheus. And Kamukura-kun, the clay man in your palm.”

Ah.

“You mean…”

“Yes, the mysterious relationship between you and Kamukura-kun; creator and creation,” he claps his hands together, “ha, it all makes sense now! Why he always speaks of you in a...hm, well, he doesn’t speak with much emotion at all, really. And I can’t say I’m in favor of this Oedipus complex of his…”

“H-hold on,” you hold up your hands and his chain jingles with the movement, “I’m not...don’t call me his  _ creator. _ ”

He blinks, head cocked to the side as his expression grows terrifyingly blank. Or at the very least, the closest thing to it. “But that’s what you are, are you not? I must say, I’m unsure whether to be disappointed or impressed. To have the audacity to create hope from a test tube, yet the will to strive for that hope in the first place.” His eyes spiral into darkness, angry scribbles of hope and despair that melt together into one, “and if the former is true, wouldn’t it be unfair to Kamukura-kun if I didn’t hate you equally? After all, he’s the one who truly had no choice in the matter.” He sighs, expression returning somewhat to normal as he crosses his arms over his chest, “agh, what a pickle. I hate moral conundrums like this.”

You don’t shy away from his criticisms, chin jut out as you firmly object, “it’s not as if I had a choice, either. By the time I realized what was going on, it was ripped from under me.”

“So there’s no right decision? How despairing. A standstill with no one triumphing, no change made,” he sighs yet again, throwing his hands up in a half shrug, “I suppose that’s my comeuppance for getting the information in the first place, it wasn’t easy by any means.”

The corner of your lip ticks up in a wry smile, “it must have been, Kamukura wouldn’t normally speak so freely.”

He grins in turn, “it was like pulling teeth.”

You share a half laugh at that. Awkward and stilted yet still somewhat companionable as you continue walking in silence.

“But still...be careful,” he breaks the quiet with a discerningly somber tone, “your hope is a precious thing, I’d hate for it to be squandered on the likes of me and Kamukura-kun.”

You turn to him, eyes following the length of chain that stretches behind you and meeting his gaze.

“Your concern is appreciated, but it’s up to me who I affiliate with,” you lift your brows to enunciate your words, “and isn’t it best to give hope to those who need it most?”

“Eheh, eheheh,” his chest heaves with every raspy chuckle, fingers clutching at his jaw as drool wells at the corner of his lip. A discomfiting image as this sweaty, shaking creature sways toward you only to jerk away. “Amazing, absolutely amazing. Oh, with every fibre of my worthless being I pray that your liver remains uneaten.”

“...thank you,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, half-understanding what he means to say, “come along, now. Let’s head back.”

And you do just that, pausing once or twice for Servant to wheeze and catch his breath. A jerky automaton of movement as his spindly limbs buckle beneath his weight, forcing you to wrap his arm around your shoulders and support his weight. You ignore his fevered mumbling and giggling as wispy hair tickles your cheek. Slapping his hand away as he scratches harshly at his neck, his fingers moving instead to probe at the inside of his cheek. Like a toddler sucking curiously at their hands. It’s a strange habit, as well as a precursor to his more... _ intense  _ outbursts. Spit dribbling down his chin as you kick open the door to your apartment and dump him on the couch. Not even startling as Kamukura stands in the living room like a lurking cryptid.

“It’s rude to invite yourself in, Kamukura-kun,” Servant grins eerily, still not completely succumbed to the throes of his fit, “have none of your talents taught you any manners? Awful, just awful.” His shoulders hitch as his breath catches on a gurgling hiccup, eyes wide and focusing on nothing in particular as his limbs thrash, “I want...I want to gouge out your eyes and reach into your skull. I want to scrape out that despair like old paint and let the h-hope shine through! Ahahaha! It’s like you’re trapped in a box and I have to dig and dig and  _ dig you out! _ Let me free you, Kamukura-kun!”

“Shush,” you admonish, pushing him down by the shoulders as he tries to rise from the couch. Still refusing to acknowledge the looming presence at your back, “try and rest for a bit, you’re not in your right mind.”

He continues babbling incomprehensibly, soothed by your intermittent nods and hums of understanding. Voice growing loud and furious every so often only to be cowed by soft words of reassurance. It takes a bit, but soon enough you’ve coaxed him to the twilight state between consciousness and sleep. Fingers tracing the arch of his brow and the cut of his jaw, every brush of your skin on his causing his eyelids to droop. Moreso in exhaustion than contentment.

“Frontotemporal dementia,” you note, still looking at Servant as you address Kamukura, “it took me a while to reach a diagnosis, seems my talent is getting rusty.” You sigh and run your fingers down the sloping bridge of his nose, the whites of Servants eyes blinking away as his pupils diligently follow the motion. Eyelids falling completely shut as he drifts off with a shaky breath. “Cancer too, perhaps. Though that’s not exactly my area of expertise…”

“Lymphoma,” Kamukura clarifies brusquely, “here.” His chest presses to your back and you jump as his fingers curl around your wrist. Guiding your hand to just behind Servant’s jaw until your fingers brush across his lymph node, “it is swollen.”

Your eyes widen as you feel the pronounced bump beneath your fingertips. Even more off put as Servant unconsciously leans into your touch, hysteria sinking in at the fact you’re caressing what are quite literally cancer cells.

“I can feel it,” you marvel, pulling away from Servant yet not bothering to shake off Kamukura’s grip, “oh lord, I shouldn’t have made him come along.”

“You should not have,” Kamukura agrees, and you suppress a snort at his bluntness, “but he would not have listened.”

“You’re fond of him.”

“He is interesting.”

“I pity him, then,” a bitter half-smile twists your lips, “it is a curse, to be found interesting by Kamukura Izuru. A fleeting one, but a curse nonetheless.” You move to cover the hand on your arm with your opposite, fingers giving the illusion of intertwining, “you let him keep his memories, the poor boy. Sometimes I wish you took mine as well.”

“No, you don’t,” he corrects you.

“I don’t. But it would make things far simpler, don’t you agree?” Your head turns and you catch his eye, dead-fish gaze comfortingly familiar as his curtain of hair brushes your side.

“Perhaps,” he gives you a half-answer, nonplussed by the petulantly downturned twist of your mouth, “perhaps not.”

You sigh, finally pulling away and ignoring the way his grip seems to tighten beforehand. 

“Well, I’m glad you confirmed this for me,” you run a hand down your face in quiet vexation, “because I know you won’t intervene, so I will be the one to do so.” You roll back your shoulders and straighten your spine. Neuroscience was never something enjoyable for you. Motivated by selfish things like recognition, money; and even force when it came to it. But now, you have something real at sake. Something important. “If I can’t cure an incurable disease, can I really be called an Ultimate?”

“Foolishness,” he shakes his head, “this is not hope, nor optimism. It is foolishness.” A beat passes, he sighs, “what do you need.”


	6. amputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get worse before they get better, Servant gets drunk, and things fall back into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the darkest chapter of this fic, so reader beware 
> 
> also i got lowkey lazy at the end because this chapter is /long/
> 
> cw: body horror, gore, surgery, amputation, emetophobia, blood, needles, drinking, mentions of drug/drug dealing, breakdown/panic attack

Turns out, it’s rather hard to find medical equipment during the apocalypse.

Though really, that’s to be expected. You’re not inexperienced when it comes to jerry rigging an IV or two. And sterile environments can be half assed if you’re willing to take that contamination risk. But MRI’s, blood tests, and decent medical textbooks? No such luck. There’s so much that you took for granted back in high school. Back when the world was normal and sane and massacres weren’t shrugged at and ignored. 

But you make do with what you have. And with Kamukura’s help—what little he deigns to give—your shelter becomes a veritable hospital in no time flat. Stocked up ten times over with everything you could possibly need in treating Servant.

Everything it seems, except Servant himself.

And Kamukura too, even. As the pair appear to have dropped completely off the face of the earth. And sure, you know Servant isn’t... _enthusiastic_ about his treatment. Something about his luck, absolute power, inevitable despair, yadda yadda yadda. But you know Kamukura wouldn’t allow him to just skip out on your weekly appointments two times in a row. So their continued absence is quite worrying.

And your worry is more than validated upon their return.

It’s late, the perpetual red of the sky extinguished by the velvet cape of a black, starless night. Smog curling in the atmosphere and blocking all but a thin sliver of the moon. Your apartment is pitch black, illuminated spottily by a varied assortment of scented candles. The wicks shriveled and the wax sunken in with hours of use. Happy scents muted and painfully artificial, apple crisp and cotton breeze mixing with every breath. Papers covered in chicken scratch scrawl are scattered haphazardly across the battered kitchen island. And you lord over the mess with your head in your hands, skull pounding as information throbs within the fleshy pulse of your brain.

You’re reviewing plaque entanglements for the thousandth time when you hear a sharp knock at the door. A rapping pattern that you recognize immediately, prompting you to jump from your seat and hastily undo the labyrinth of locks. Releasing the final chain with a soft _schnick_ and eagerly throwing open the door, freezing in place as you take in the scene before you.

If you weren’t so intimately acquainted with the two, you wouldn’t see anything wrong with the picture they make. But the way Kamukura’s hand rests so high on Servant’s leash, the wavering tenseness of the latter’s smile, and the firm press of Kamukura’s lips sets nerves jittering across your skin.

That, and the ragged mitten tugged over Servant’s left hand.

“What happened?” You ask, voice hushed as Kamukura steps inside and tugs Servant in after him. The action less so to guide and more to _force._ “What’s wrong?”

“That, I do not know,” Kamukura answers, and the admission gives you chills, “Servant refuses to tell me what he’s done.”

Your gaze shifts from Kamukura to the man at his right. Servant clutching his left arm to his chest like a mother would shield their baby, as if it’s something precious to protect.

“As I’ve said, _Kamukura-kun—“_ he practically spits out the name “—you do not need to worry about the likes of me! Much less bring them into it.” His smile wavers as his lips twitch around the grit of his teeth. “I promise you, I am more than fine.”

“He is not fine.”

“You are not fine,” you agree, closing the door and busying yourself with the locks. Turning round once you’ve finished and reaching out for him, “now let me—“

“ _NO!”_ Servant backs away with the grace of a tangled marionette. Tripping over his own feet and nearly crashing to the ground. “ _Don’t touch me!”_

You freeze in place, startled by the reaction as Kamukura grips his chain and uses it to yank Servant forward once again.

“ _Careful,_ ” you stress, fixing Kamukura with a reproachful glare as you try to weigh the situation. Forcing your tone and expression into something gentle as you soothingly hold out your hands to Servant. “It’s alright, it’s okay. I only want to help you. You’re hurting, right?”

Servant’s smile slips slightly down his face. Shaking fearfully like a cornered animal, eyes darting about anxiously like trapped things.

“Kamukura,” your eyes flit to meet the man in question, his expression still neutral despite the chaos unfolding before you, “I need you to let him go.”

“That seems unwise.”

“ _Now._ ”

He complies. Servant frozen still as the leash sways and smacks against his chest, stumbling further into the depths of your apartment as you make no move to follow him. Knowing it’ll only confirm his paranoia of being chased.

“I can’t...I can’t... _I can’t I can’t I can’t I c—“_ he takes a sharp, hysterical breath “— _an’t.”_

“Can’t what?” You lower your voice to a gentle murmur. “Speak, darling. Use your words.” The pet name slips out unwittingly, but it works wonders as Servant’s fear-dilated pupils shrink and his breathing evens out.

“I can’t show you,” he forces out, air hissing between his teeth, “because...ahahah...because you’d take her away from me! Tell me I’m _sick_ and—and throw me away like you should’ve the second you saw me!”

“Take her…?” The questioning lilt of your voice peters out as you look to Kamukura. A sick sense of understanding dawning on his unmoving features that makes your blood curdle.

“I see now,” he says, turning his head away, “how disappointing.”

You try not to overthink those words as you turn your gaze back to Servant, the remnant giggling to himself as he grips his(?) limp left wrist with his opposite hand.

“Servant, please. I just need to see what’s underneath that glove. I won’t take anything away from you, alright? I promise.”

You don’t know what convinces him. Your words, your expression, the tone of your voice. But his stance relaxes and slowly, slowly, he works off the mitten and drops it weightily to the ground. A rotten, pungent smell overtaking the scented candles as he holds up what had hid beneath.

It’s a hand, a _woman’s_ hand. Haphazardly sewn on and stapled with old thread, fishing line, and bits and bobs of metal. It’s absolutely putrid, rotted flakes of skin and bloated flesh that’s purpled and dripping. Bile presses up against the back of your throat as he brings that _thing_ up to his cheek. Red acrylic nails catching on his lip as his chest jitters with breathy laughter. The realization that he _cut off his own hand_ and replaced it with _that_ hitting you like a tsunami.

“Eheh, isn’t it _revolting?_ ” He shivers, bone grating chuckles shaking his shoulders as stiffened fingers stroke his cheek. “To become one with my worst enemy, for her despair to become my hope. To merge with the infamous Enoshima Junko!”

Sometimes you forget these men are remnants of despair. For such a thing to slip your mind, it’s almost laughable. Yet it has, time and time again. Only for you to be shaken back to reality upon witnessing something truly horrid. Servant strangling someone with his own chain, Kamukura standing above the riots like a shunned god. These are some of the most capable, most notorious men still alive today. And you have them playing house in your ramshackle apartment. 

Now what, exactly, does that say about you?

“So you truly are like the other remnants. Still infatuated with Enoshima even after death,” Kamukura says blandly, dull gaze cutting through Servant like a knife. “Pity”

“No no no,” the other says in a rush, limp wrist pinwheeling as he waves his hands. “You misunderstand, I did this out of _hate._ The purest, brightest hate like the light of a thousand suns!”

“Hate?” Kamukura presses, “or perhaps, was it love?”

“Huh?” Servant tilts his head like a wide eyed kitten. Uncomfortably innocent as his arms drop to his sides, “huh huh huh huh huh?”

“You salvaged the body, did you not?” Kamukura mirrors the cant of Servant’s neck. “To go so far as to replace one of your limbs with her own, it’s not exactly indicative of animosity.”

“How cold,” Servant says darkly, manic expression shifting into something terrifyingly stony, “to say something so cruel with such a face...how _cold._ ” He waves his arms and you watch one of the shoddy stitches _rip_ on the downswing. “Why I—“

“That’s _enough_ ,” you snap, and something in your expression renders both of them quiet. The only sounds in your apartment being dripping wax and the gentle flickering of emaciated candles. “The both of you, stop arguing like children and let me think for just a moment.” You huff out a breath and pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers, trying to dull the pounding headache just behind your eyes only for it to throb harder at the motion. A constant pulsing as you struggle to draw up some sort of solution, like scribbling on a chalkboard in pouring rain. 

Forcibly taking the arm will render Servant downright mutinous, and there’s no telling what he’ll do in the throes of his hysterics. But you cannot in good conscience leave him in such a state. The limb is weeks away from becoming necrotic, and the idea of liquefied flesh seeping into the severed stump of his arm is nauseating at best, and indescribably revolting at worst.

So that leaves you with one option…

“Servant, we are going to take the arm off,” your tone is stern, brokering no room for argument. The remnant in question baring his teeth like an alley cat trying to defend its territory, moments away from snapping before you interrupt his spiral. “And then we will reattach it, _properly._ You are not going to die from something as benign as infection on my watch.”

He seems to simmer down at that, some semblance of trust breaking through the despair fervor as his head jerks in a tentative nod. Your gaze shifts to Kamukura and he gives a similar, albeit subtler, incline of his head. And with that, you shift into gear. Ushering the two into the living room and sitting Servant at the coffee table, motheaten pillows cushioning his knees as you turn and rush into the bedroom. It’s far darker in there, and you bustle about blindly as you search for what you need. Relying on memory alone as you bump into walls and furniture like a fly slamming against a sliding glass door. And soon enough, you step back out into the open. Arms overflowing with materials as you neatly lay them out on the coffee table.

“No painkillers,” Kamukura observes, having settled on the couch while you were in the opposite room. It appears he won’t be helping you, not that you were really expecting him to do so. Intervention is not one of Kamukura’s specialties, especially in a scenario as precariously entertaining as this. “You tend to go through them rather quickly.”

The insinuation is not lost on you. “They’re the first to go during trade,” you shrug, picking up a bottle of antibiotics and setting it nearby. “Pills are worth their weight in gold, nowadays.”

“I assure you I don’t need them either way!” Servant grins, blinking up at you with wet, spiraling eyes. “I’m far more tenacious than I look. I can withstand quite a deal of pain if need be.”

“I don’t doubt that,” you hum, standing up and moving to rifle through the kitchen. “Though there’s no need for you to suffer if there are other options.” He opens his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of how he _deserves_ to feel pain—but is cut off as you slam a glass bottle onto the table. The label is scratched off and the neck is chipped, but it’s unmistakable regardless. “Drink, we may as well resort to the old ways.”

“Aha, oh wow,” he titters to himself as he grips the bottle with his real hand and unscrews the cap with his teeth. Face screwing up as he takes a whiff of the bitter liquor within. “I’ve never drank before, so this will be like all those high school parties I missed!”

Your tongue clicks behind your teeth as you stop him from drinking right away. Hand resting atop his on the neck of the bottle as you turn to Kamukura.

“How much should he drink?”

His eyes flick over Servant assessively, “three point seven five ounces is enough for him to be intoxicated.”

You look back to Servant, “try to drink a bit more than that.”

He nods obediently, wide eyed with immature excitement that makes something twist in your chest. Reminding you of that boy you met so long ago, the boy whose name you still can’t remember. No matter how many sleepless nights you spend staring up at the ceiling, wracking your brain like a child shaking out an empty coin purse; his name still remains frustratingly elusive. Until the fogged up memory of that eager boy is replaced with the twisted amalgamation before you now. (It reminds you, in a way, of Hinata. Of how red replaced a green that you can’t even fully remember. Was it emerald, olive; was there a hazel gradient that made your heart skip, or was it gold? Memory is fickle and soon enough you’ll forget everything except his name. Maybe even forget that there was ever someone else before Kamukura).

Caught up in your contemplation, you almost miss the moment Servant throws his head back and takes a hefty swallow. Expression souring as he stifles a hacking cough into his elbow.

“Oh,” he forces out, eyes watering as he stares regretfully at the bottle, “maybe it was actually good luck that I was never invited out.”

You give him a sympathetic hum, laying a towel out on the table and gingerly stretching Enoshima’s arm across it. Fighting not to gag as the skin moves and even sloughs off with your adjustments. Servant barely even startles at this, instead taking another swig of the bottle with a hiccuping wheeze. More put off by the taste of the liquor than the rotting limb sewn to his flesh.

The minutes tick by in relative silence. Kamukura watching the two of you disinterestedly as Servant nurses a slowly draining bottle. Eyes going lidded and hazy as he rests his head on the pockmarked oak of the coffee table. Gently, you brush the fringe from his eyes and guide his neck into a more comfortable position. Slightly relieved that he appears to be a sleepy drunk and not the other end of the spectrum.

“I’m going to begin, now,” you warn, grateful that Servant is such a lightweight as he barely stirs as you sit beside him. You bring one of the candles closer as you start to work, sage and bergamot perfuming the air as you run an antiseptic wipe across the patchwork of stitching. Tweezers in one hand and scissors in the other as you work to remove the crafts store worth of thread that he’d woven into his skin. You’re by no means an expert, but you know enough to get the job done. Kamukura’s judging stare becoming little more than a distant itch as you zero in on your work.

And with a final snip, the last of the stitches have been removed, leaving the rusted bits of metal that he’d shoved in as thoughtless support. You wince in sympathy as you begin to draw the staples out from his skin. Servant finally blinking out of his haze as he shifts uncomfortably, pressing his forehead to the table as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“There,” you pluck the last staple from his arm, taking in an anticipatory breath as you move to separate him from Enoshima. “On three. One, two…”

You tug the two limbs apart and suppress the instinct to stop upon hearing Servant’s yowl of pained protest. Gooey scabs pasting the flesh together like a toddler’s art piece, darkened blood spurting from the mess like a butchered ham. Your mouth drops into a gaping ‘o’ of helplessness as you take in the damage, turning your head so that he can’t see your perturbed expression.

The bone is jagged and splintered, the red of his marrow peeking out from the pearly white like peonies atop marble. The edge of his own skin is blackened and curled, as if Enoshima’s rot had spread from her arm to his. A corrupting force like a drop of black ink in a cup of water.

This is far beyond your capabilities. And, shamefully, your eyes dart up to Kamukura before shifting away in resolve. Certain that he’ll make no move to help, no call to action when you need it most.

You’re so wrapped up in your slowly building panic that you don’t even realize how Servant is chugging down mouthfuls of bitter liquor. A drunken, half-baked decision to try and null the pain in the only way that’s been made available to him.

Don’t realize it, that is, until Kamukura steps in.

“That’s enough,” he says firmly, wrenching the half-empty bottle from Servant’s grasp and setting it out of reach. Kneeling down across from you and plucking the instruments from your hand in one fluid motion. Expertly, he tends to the bloody mess atop the towel, catching your eye as his hands move in perfect synchronicity. “Calm yourself. There’s no need to panic over something such as this.”

You gape at him dumbly, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish before you finally find your voice. “You helped.”

He blinks, a slow kiss of eyelashes as his fingers dance across exposed muscle. “Yes.”

You swallow around the hard lump in your throat and blink the wetness from your eyes. Deciding not to speak as you instead direct your attentions to Servant. Smoothing your hand over the mat of his hair in a mindless rhythm, unable to run your fingers through it due to its helpless tangling. Mumbling random, soothing noises as his mouth hangs open and his spine tenses and untenses. Brow slick with sweat as a red flush overtakes the porcelain frailty of his skin.

“This is…” Servant’s eyes dart from you to Kamukura and back to you again. A woozy smile twisting his lips into a lopsided arch. “This is more than I could have ever wanted. The attentions of two of the most— _hic—_ most _important_ people.”

“You are undergoing surgery,” Kamukura says blasely, still toiling away at his work. “Of course you’d have our attention.”

“Kamukura-kun is so blunt sometimes. No...all the time! Ha…” Servant giggles at his little joke, tilting his head up as your fingers scratch at his nape. 

“Most important people, huh,” you say absentmindedly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and feeling your stomach knot at his smile. “Didn’t know you thought of Kamukura so _highly.”_

And you really didn’t. The remnant is so passively antagonistic to the man that you really don’t understand why Kamukura keeps him around.

“Mhm mhm, at times like these I forget who I am and who Kamukura-kun is. And there’s a little pearl of wanting right _here._ ” He tries to point with his left only to be halted by Kamukura’s firm grip around his elbow, resorting instead to his right hand as he clumsily slaps at his chest. “I really...really am a hopeless romantic at heart! And when it comes to symbols of hope like Kamukura-kun and yourself...it’s downright _sacrilegious_ what my revolting, perverted mind comes up with _._ ” His voice dips to what can be loosely described as a seductive purr. His eyelids hooded as he grabs clumsily at your collar and tries to tug you in. Though what would’ve been attractive is lost to the filmy grips of drunkenness. The remnant quickly distracted as you press a kiss to his sweaty forehead and lower him back to the table.

“Behave, you are literally being operated on as we speak,” you scold, eyes cutting to Kamukura as a flare of nervousness ignites in your stomach. You’d never defined what was between you and him, never even officially called it off. So is what you’re doing...okay? You care about them both so deeply—even in the midst of conflict. And you just can’t see yourself choosing between them.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Servant whispers as he touches where your lips met his skin, a thought he hadn’t meant to vocalize. ”I might just fall in love like this.”

But before you can think to address _that_ , Kamukura interrupts.

“Done,” he says simply, and your eyes rise to meet the perfectly woven bandages that hide the seam where Servant meets Enoshima. The whole setup appearing much more sustainable now that it’s properly stitched on.

“Thank you, Kamukura,” you say quietly, giving him a soft smile as his expression remains as dull as ever. Blinking slightly slower as the piercing spear of his gaze turns blunt. “I appreciate the help.”

You think he’s about to say something in turn, but Servant stumbling to his feet and throwing himself down the hall interrupts you. And in the blink of an eye, Kamukura disappears from your field of view and follows after him. Awful retching sounds from the bathroom as you connect the dots, gaze falling on the nearly empty bottle of liquor as you grimace to yourself. You really should have stopped him sooner...you owe a lot to Kamukura, it seems.

Gathering your resolve, you grab a nearby candle—three wicks, the scent of peach cobbler pervading the air as the wax sloshes over the edge—and follow the pair into the bathroom. The space cramped beyond belief as you set the light on the sink and turn to face the two. Watching as Servant keels over the edge of the toilet, spitting up into the bowl as his body shakes with every heave. All the while Kamukura stands stiffly at his side with a single hand at his shoulder, a vigilant guard.

“Get some water, please,” you direct, squatting down and rubbing a hand between Servant’s shoulder blades in comfort. Ignoring the panicked look he sends you both that screams _I’m not worthy._ “Shush, it’s alright. Just let it out.”

His whole body flexes and jumps as he tries not to puke again. Shaking his head vehemently only for the action to dizzy him and send him pitching forward into the toilet. Hacking wetly into the porcelain bowl as you gingerly pull his hair away from his face.

“‘M sorry ‘m sorry ‘m sorry. ‘M so disgusting and n-now you have to put up with my filth—“ his voice comes out in a panicked rush as he heaves again, nothing coming up as his tongue lolls out. “Please kill me, please. It’s a selfish request but I just want this to _stop_ and I know ’m just a burden—“

“Quiet,” Servant startles as Kamukura interrupts his pleading. The remnant hiccuping as tears streak his cheeks, eyes going wide as Kamukura presses a cup into his right hand. “You’re drunk and in pain. This was to be expected.” No one moves. “Now drink, show some care for yourself at the very least.”

“Hah...hah…” surprisingly, Servant complies. Greedily gulping down the water before resting his cheek on the cool edge of the toilet seat. “Thank you, Kamukura-kun. You’re...infuriatingly considerate...” His eyes flag at half mast, slowly falling shut as his whole body goes limp with sleep. Fingers going lax as you pluck the glass from his hands and set it to the side.

It’s quiet, after that. No sound except Servant’s labored breathing and the settling creaks of the building around you. You’re not in much of a hurry to go anywhere, the exhaustion of the past few hours crashing into you like a tsunami after the ocean retreats from shore. Shoulders slumping forward as the monumental task of cleaning up looms overhead like a spear from the ceiling.

“I will do it.”

“Hm?” You lift your heavy head and look up to Kamukura, the man standing over you almost protectively. 

“You are moments from collapsing, I will take care of everything else.”

“Oh…” you feel like crying, why do you feel like crying? “Thank you, really. I feel as if I haven’t said it enough.”

“There is no need to thank me,” he answers, turning his head aside. “If something so inconsequential provides you comfort, I suppose I will do it. Even if it’s dreadfully, dreadfully boring.” You have a feeling he’s trying to say something more. “Inaction is just as boring to me as action. If the latter grants you happiness, so be it. I will...intervene if need be.”

Oh, this is...an apology, of sorts. It’s more than you expected, really. Heartfelt, almost. If you think about it too hard.

“I...thank you,” you bow your head and look down at your hands folded in your lap, “I don’t think I can necessarily forgive you for…” you remember Enoshima’s cackle. The _despair_ of your underclassmen as they heard what had been stolen from them “... _that._ But...I’m tired of being angry.” You rise to your feet and look at him meaningfully, trusting he knows what you’re requesting as he gives you a slow blink of permission. Letting you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth as you bury your face in his shoulder. “I missed you. You didn’t have to be so frustratingly elaborate just to visit me.”

“Hm. If that’s what you wish to believe,” he says, a hand coming to rest at your waist. Your eyes falling closed as a piece of you falls back into place.


	7. domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which realizations are made, dances are shared, and you finally reach an understanding between the three of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i feel like the pacing and characterization is off? yes
> 
> will i proofread this? no
> 
> cw: smut, panic attack/breakdown, minor sh(?), implied trauma/flashbacks, slight disordered eating

Normalcy is the last thing you’d expect in a world such as this.

 _Normalcy_ is a distant pipe dream that died the very same day Hope's Peak went up in flames. _Normalcy_ is a whispered myth that slips through your fingers like smoke, something you can never fully grasp before the wind whisks it away. _Normalcy_ is a futile hope. _Normalcy_ went away long, long ago.

And yet…

You catch glimpses of it, this cryptic, unreachable thing. In the glances of weak, yellowy sunlight that cut through the acrid wall of clouds. In the way Servant’s hand—his hand, not Enoshima’s. Never Enoshima’s—brushes yours as you walk side by side, tentative equals. In the tilt of Kamukura’s chin as he motions for you to come closer. In the battered cassette player Servant proffers with a shaky hand and a triumphant, lip-biting grin. In the tapes Kamukura subsequently hands over with a dismissive flick of his wrist. In the small presents and services you find yourself buried in.

And you make a thing of it, of proudly showing off their little gifts like a courted bird. A silk ribbon tied round your wrist, poetry books carefully piled on the table; and fumbling, sticky cassette tapes that gum up at the ends and play smooth music in the middle. Constant hours of fast forwarding and rewinding not enough to clear up the blockage.

But it’s music all the same. Something your life has been sorely lacking since Mioda took over the airwaves and blasted despair inducing tunes on loop. And it’s music that’s playing now. Old, lilting love songs that you don’t know the name of. The identifying labels on the tape scratched away so only the yellowing glue remains.

Candles flicker as dying rays of sunlight parse through your newspaper covered windows. Sun bleached headlines glowing orange as scents mix into an artificial, pinching swill (though peach, sage, and bergamot are noticeably missing from the mix. The dead-eyed look on Servant’s face whenever those candles were lit prompting you to throw them out). Your shadow stretches across the floor in a disproportionate caricature of yourself. Swaying slightly as you trip over Servant’s misplaced foot and steady yourself with your hand at his waist, the two of you stumbling through footwork in a clumsy half-dance around the coffee table. You lead as Servant follows, breathy giggles and self deprecation left in his wake with every trip and stumble. Kamukura watching passively from the couch as Servant makes a point to try and step on his toes every time you pass. So far, he’s been wholly unsuccessful. Kamukura casually shifting his foot to the left or right whenever Servant moves to stomp.

The events of that eventful surgery have been largely...ignored, between the three of you. Servant dismissing any mention of it with a wide, twitching smile. Eyes flicking noticeably to Kamukura before they fall closed in a full grin, cheeks pushing up to his eye line with the grit of his smile. You and Kamukura may have made up in your own way—with the two remnants now visiting together without the pretense of babysitting—but there’s still an unwinding drama between Kamukura and Servant that you can’t even begin to map out. The remnant is built off a shoddy foundation of contrasting beliefs and idiosyncrasies that he wields as a double edged sword. The point of it aimed at Kamukura’s heart only for the blade to slip and slough off his own hand. It’s a complex, knotted relationship of animosity and adoration that you have no means or intention to unravel. Because sometimes, it’s best to let things play out and see if the mess untangles or complicates itself further.

“What a boring performance,” Kamukura drawls, unaffected as Servant levels him with a deadpan stare.

“How thoughtless, Kamukura-kun,” Servant almost sneers, his continued tripping diminishing the bite of his words. “Not all of us have SHSL Dancer implanted into our brains!”

You heave an exasperated sigh, tripping on Servant’s leash as you mistakenly step in opposite directions. “Hush up,” you reprimand, guiding Servant into a rounded turn and dodging his wayward steps. “Skill matters not as of now, so long as we follow the music.”

“You are doing rather poorly, then,” Kamukura comments. You blink, and you find yourself in his arms instead of Servant’s. The latter glaring from where he’d been abandoned with his cheeks puffed out. With Kamukura now at the helm, it’s incomprehensibly easy to fall into step. And though you’re meant to be leading, there’s no doubt that Kamukura is really the one guiding the two of you. A graceful, spiraling dance as you follow the path you and Servant had already set out.

“Here,” he intwines his right hand with your left, hoisting them higher as his feet weave between your own, “now keep the pattern, don’t look down.”

“Thank you, love,” you smile softly, heeding his instruction. The man seemingly satisfied as he smoothly detaches from you and sweeps Servant into his arms in turn, the other far too shocked to resist. “Ultimate Choreographer, I’m guessing?”

“Dance Instructor, Ballroom Dancer, and Child Educator.”

Servant squawks indignantly at the condescension, totally unaware of the ironic nature of his outburst as he petulantly lifts his foot. Only for the squawk to shift to a shriek as Kamukura makes use of his imbalance to elegantly dip him. Scrabbling at his shoulders and clutching to him once they’re righted. Scowl softening minutely as they return to simple swaying.

The whole endeavor is amusing to watch. Servant stubbornly clutching to disdain even as his shoulders lose their tension and his movements shift to something bordering on grace. The two of them are like waves meeting at the shore, gentle lapping that can shift at any moment to frenzied, foaming scrapes. Flames twining together in a bonfire of bloody immolation. Pot calling kettle, souls blackened with despair only the other can understand. No matter how long you listen, how much you sympathize; you will never know that bottomless pit like they do. And maybe, maybe, that’s why Servant clings. Why he lets Kamukura hold his chain despite the poisoned barbs that fall from his lips. Why the two of them are so tightly wound that sometimes you’re not sure where you’ll fit.

“That will do,” Kamukura says blandly, twirling Servant so that he stumbles back into your arms. The two of you slipping easily into dance now that you’ve been given instruction. A soft, satisfied smile on your face as your toes remain un-stepped on. Servant mirroring the grin in his own manic way as his hand shakes in yours. Squeezing as if he can’t believe that you’re _real_ , that you’d really deign to touch _him_ of all people.

It’s then that you realize the gravity of this moment. The drawling voice on the tape crooning saccharine lyrics as strings pluck and the chorus lilts. A gentle, almost domestic feel settling in your gut as you catch Servant’s eye. The sharp contours of his face illuminated in the orangey glow. Neither flattering nor detrimental, but the light catches in his misty eyes and they’re alight like a smoldering flame. Not the flashbang of madness you’re so used to, but something almost _soft._

His expression is unreadable. Not for want of trying, but because he’s so _close_ now that you can’t even see the whole of his face. Though you notice his lips are slack and his eyes are glossy, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. Tracing over a darkened scab that’s been worn in by his neurotic biting.

You feel the scab as his lips press against your own.

It’s sudden, uncharacteristic; though you should know by now that Servant is far from predictable. Teeth clacking against your own as his mouth clumsily smushes to yours. It’s a boldfaced move, desire and passion burning through you like rice paper over flame. A destruction that you’re happy to be witness to, the momentary warmth before you catch fire worth the ashen feeling of burning flesh. Ready to crumble apart so long as you can bundle up this feeling and tuck it away like preserves in wax sealed mason jars. Sweet and saccharine with an earthy tint like tilled earth and bloody footprints, seconds from being washed away by the rain.

Though the moment is tainted as Servant backpedals with a vengeance, throwing himself away front you as if you’d caught flame. Hysterical, panicked giggles tumbling from his mouth as his teeth gnash. Fingers gripping at his hair as Enoshima’s covered hand slaps at his temple. Regret paints his every move as wide, bloodshot eyes dart from Kamukura to you and back to Kamukura again. A silent, desperate plea for mercy as a gross array of snot and tears makes its way down his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so selfishly disgusting, a loathsome worm that can’t leave anything be, that takes what isn’t his. Aha! Ahahaha!” He doesn’t bother to wipe his face, hands shaking as he grips his chain and _pulls._ Head painfully jerking forward as he chokes on every sobbing breath. “I’d beg you to kill me, but I’d hate to dirty your hands with my awful blood! And I’m sure you’re sick of that already! Of me begging you to be rid of me whenever I wrong you so.” His tongue traces his teeth and laps at the tears gathering at the corner of his lip. Fingers moving from the chain to his sleeves as he hugs himself with fervor. “But no matter!” His grin twists into what could almost constitute as a frown, lips quickly twitching upward to hide the movement. “Kamukura-kun, I’m sure you won’t mind if a terrible burden such as myself finally leaves you be. Maybe it’ll even give you the hope that you sorely lack!” He throws his hands up and almost falls flat on his back with the motion. “Or perhaps I’m just lying to myself. Yes, that must be the case. Because Kamukura-kun is so insufferably perfect despite the falsity of his very existence! And maybe that’s why I hate him so. And hate and love are two very— _eheheh_ —very similar things and— _oh,_ ” he pauses his rant with a wheezing gasp, hand coming to clutch at his cheek as Enoshima’s limply bats at his jaw. Nails digging into his skin until blood wells up from the red, crescent marks. “What filth I am forcing you to listen to. Mushrooms will sprout from your ears with the rot I’m forcing inside your head. And surely my own brain, the leaky sieve that it is, must be just as decayed for I’m c-certain y-you kissed me b-back.”

His following words are lost to frantic, heaving breaths. Eyes spiraling with blackened despair as his legs threaten to give out from under him. You can hear the rusted clock of his brain tick tick tick with a thousand different thoughts. The cuckoo bursting out with a yodeling tweet as he’s completely lost to you.

If you’d known that this would happen. Known that he’d scratch at his skin until he bled, that he’d grip his leash and choke himself with it out of shame; then you never would have let him lean in so close. Never would’ve kissed _back._ Because his panic is mounting, words slurring together in a panicked, babbling rush that you can barely decipher. The remnant stumbling towards the door as he fights with the locks, luck spurring him on as he opens them all in one quick motion.

“Servant wait—“

He’s out the door before you can finish your sentence.

It’s uncomfortably silent after the fact. Music still playing cheerily even as the atmosphere is anything but. Candlelight casting ghastly shadows that jeer and mock you with their amorphous flickering.

“In retrospect, that was not the best way to breach the topic,” you say, tone bordering on full out panic. Dragging your palm down your face and ignoring the shake of your fingers. Failure weighs heavy on your shoulders like a cloak wove of stone. Wishing that you could’ve got a word in edgewise before Servant barreled out the door. That both you and Kamukura wanted this, wanted _him._

“It was not,” Kamukura states bluntly. Standing up from the couch and materializing at your side. 

“Then why didn’t _you_ say anything?” You say almost bitterly. A part of you aching over the fact that he’d already broken his promise to intervene if need be.

If you’re feeling particularly indulgent, you can trick yourself into thinking his gaze softens. “My intervention would’ve only made things worse. He was panicking enough as is.”

You sigh, accepting his reasoning with a quiet nod. “We should go after him,” you implore, surging forward only to be halted by Kamukura’s hand at your shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary,” he corrects, “he will come back in time.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, choosing to trust his words as tension ebbs from your shoulders in a sudden slump.

“Very well then, I trust you,” you sigh, “so, what next?”

Out of everything, you weren’t expecting him to suggest a shower.

It’s a routine of sorts, established long ago in that run down condo in the suburbs. Where you herd Kamukura into the shower and the two of you wash up, running a brush through the untameable mess of his hair with towels round your dripping shoulders.

Though for him to suggest it now...he’s clearly planning something.

But you go along with it regardless. Squeezing the both of you into a shower undoubtedly meant for one. The spray insufferably cold as you scrub shampoo into his roots, throwing on bundles of towels to stave off the chill as the two of you finally settle on the bed. Clad in only your underwear as you run a battered, snaggletooth comb through his wet locks.

It’s cathartic, for you at the very least. A familiar, repeating motion that you can easily sink into. A pleasant fog you don’t mind getting lost in, the feel of silken hair between your fingertips grounding you to reality. The warm feeling in your chest simmers quietly as the forks of the comb parse easily through the length of his hair. A tiny part of you preening with pride at your diligent work, like a bird puffing up it’s chest in courtship.

Distracted as you are, you almost don’t notice that someone else has entered the room.

Almost.

It’s as Kamukura said, Servant has returned after all. Wide eyed and shaking in the bedroom door frame, but returned nonetheless. Looking none the worse for wear.

“Servant,” you gasp, relief seeping into your voice as you shoot up and hurry over to him. Grasping his right hand in yours before he can turn away. “Are you alright? I was so worried.”

“Eheheh,” nervous, giggling laughter spills from his lips as his eyes dart around the room. Pointedly avoiding both you and Kamukura as they settle on a dusty spot in the corner. “There’s no need to waste your energy _worrying_ for the likes of me. I'm only here to pay my dues.” He bows his head in a sign of demure submission, poisoned vulnerability oozing from his very being as he simpers. Hand limp in yours for how could he have the _audacity_ to hold it? “Please, use me, abuse me. Treat me like the dirt beneath your shoe. Remind me of my place, leagues below you. Punish me for my revolting audacity to try and kiss you!”

You blink, pinching his chin between your fingers and forcing him to meet your gaze. Pressing a kiss between his brows as his eyes cross at the motion.

“There’s no need for that,” you reassure, “no one’s upset, I promise you.”

“But...I soiled your mouth whilst _Kamukura-kun_ was watching!” His mouth twists downwards like a curdling lemon. Voice dipping into a shameful, conspiratorial hush at the last view words.

“Think, Servant,” Kamukura says almost irritatedly, the remnant jumping as he appears by his side. “If I had not wanted you to kiss them, do you truly believe you would have gotten so far?”

A pregnant pause.

“...what?”

“Servant,” you say next, hand still at his jaw, “has it occurred to you that I— _we_ —both wanted to kiss you?”

“...

 _What?_ ”

“Thick-headed fool,” Kamukura sighs, gripping Servant’s jaw and angling his head towards him. Lips slotting together as Servant’s eyes widen then unwittingly fall shut, still closed as Kamukura pulls away. “Is it so far fetched that there are those who care for you?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Servant stresses with sudden force, eyes flying open as he wrenches himself from both of your grips. “Because to be near me is a curse, surely you know that by now! My luck. Yes, my luck. It’ll tear you asunder and all I’ll be able to do is watch. Bad turns to good and good turns to bad, and everything around me is caught up in the cycle. It’s inevitable, inescapable!”

“Your luck is paltry compared to mine,” Kamukura disputes.

“Ah, yes. That may be true. But what of _them?”_ He points a shaking finger to you. “They have no artificial talents to protect them, Kamukura-kun. And even a hope as strong as their own will fall to the downswings of my luck.”

Tentatively, like reaching out to a frightened animal, you grasp his outstretched wrist and press a fluttering kiss to the palm. Ignoring his wretching sob as you pull him into a half-embrace.

“Let your luck come,” you murmur, lips brushing over his temple as he shakes like a leaf in your arms. “Even the worst of it’s horrors will not dissuade me from staying.”

He breaks, then. Falling into you with a medley of loud, hiccuping sobs that burst from his throat like bubbly carbonation. Crying harder as Kamukura stiltedly brushes away his tears with the backs of his fingers.

“I must be dreaming,” he heaves, sniffling as you kiss a line down the tear tracks staining his cheeks. “This is...this is too much.” He giggles wetly, a hand coming up to press against his forehead. “Ah, I’m sorry. I’m tainting this moment with my awful, filthy desires. Please just ignore me.”

You tilt your head in confusion, startling as Kamukura grips your chin and presses his lips to yours. Tongue flicking into your mouth as you yield to the sudden entry. Pulling back with a gasp and a slight furrow to your brow.

“Wha—”

You feel it then, against your hip. A tented hardness in Servant’s jeans that he’d been trying to hide.

“I’m sorry, it’s just there’s so much _skin_ and you’re all _wet_ , ahahah. I thought I’d died and mistakenly gone to heaven!” He grins, eyes flicking downwards to your scantily clad fronts before darting upwards. Heat rising to your cheeks as you finally remember your state of undress. “Please, ignore my disgusting nature and _mmph_ — _!”_

He’s cut off with your mouth colliding with his. A wet press of tongues and teeth as you taste the salty brine of his tears. Tracing the scab on his lip with your tongue before licking into his mouth, eventually pulling away with a dripping trail of saliva.

“You play dirty, Izuru,” you comment, turning from Servant and raising a brow at the other. “A shower, really.”

“It worked, did it not,” he answers dismissively, leaning forward and wiping the line of drool from Servant’s chin. Straight faced and unbothered even as Servant literally melts at the contact, turning to mush as Kamukura once again touches his lips to his.

The next few moments are a blur. You and Servant stumbling to the bed as Kamukura gracefully steps in after you. Clothing flying every which way as Servant gleefully announces that he hasn’t eaten yet. Earning a reproachful glare from you that doesn’t dull his anticipatory grin, though your mouth trailing down his now bare chest certainly does. 

He’s wafer thin, quaking beneath your ministrations like a palm tree in a hurricane. You can trace every notch of his ribs as they press against his papery skin. Red marks cropping up seconds after you press in with your teeth, bruising like a ripened peach. Delectably sweet on your tongue.

“Hah...hah…” his face screws up and flushes a patchy red. Darkening even further as you lean over his shoulder and slot your lips to Kamukura’s. Pressing the three of you together in a sandwich of sorts with Servant trapped firmly in the middle. Wiggling between you with poorly masked eagerness as his chain digs into your skin and his.

Though that firm pressure is quickly relieved as Kamukura pulls away. Rifling for something in the nightstand drawer as the snick of a lid betrays what he’s just grabbed. The varnished scent of vaseline perfuming the air as his hand settles on Servant’s hip.

“Relax,” Kamukura says simply, Servant slumping forward obediently as his hips are hitched up and his cheek presses into your chest. Knees spread as you’re granted a full view of what’s happening below. “Now, you’re certain this is what you want.”

“Mhm…” Servant hums, open mouthed against your chest as your fingers skim over the bumps of his vertebrae. A distracting motion that lulls him into security as Kamukura slips a slickened digit into his hole. “ _Oh.”_

And with that pretty noise, Kamukura zeroes in with a laseresque focus befitting of the Ultimate Hope. Not necessarily interested, but not yet bored. Adding another finger, and then another, as Servant slips down your front until his nose is pressed to your stomach. Your fingers carding through his hair as he groans every time it catches on a tangle.

“Someone’s eager,” you hum, heat lancing down your spine as your thumb traces Servant’s bottom lip and he takes the digit into his mouth. Tongue swirling around the pad of your thumb as he blinks up at you with hazy, lust blown eyes. “What a darling, pretty boy.”

He keens around your thumb at the praise, voice jumping up an octave as Kamukura swiftly removes his fingers and slowly pushes in with his cock. Brows drawn in focus as he grips Servant’s hips and flattens his palm at the small of his back. The movement sudden and almost vicious.

You cock an eyebrow, biting back a teasing smirk at the stoney look on Kamukura’s face. “Jealous, love?”

“What a pointless remark,” he answers, his voice barely strained if not for an underlying gruffness.

“Well, I think you’re pretty too,” you grin, even as Kamukura huffs and drives forward into Servant again. The remnant’s stifled moans turning into frenzied babbling as you pull your thumb from his mouth. Dragging it down his bottom lip before stroking it across his nape.

“Let me...let me…” Servant slurs, arms winding around you to grip at your hips. The mitten covering Enoshima’s hand scratching at your skin. “Let me please you. Let me ruin you with my mouth. I _beg_ of you.”

Well, you’re not going to say no to _that._

He lets out a guttural groan upon hearing your assent. Not wasting a second as he dips his head so that it’s buried between your thighs, mouthing eagerly at whatever he can reach. Heat coils low in your stomach as his tongue drags up and down your skin. The slack of his lips captivatingly glossy as a moan rumbles in the back of his throat, a delicious vibration that makes your hips buck forward into his waiting mouth. His nose presses against your navel with every errant thrust from behind, an additional pressure that feels so damn _good_ even as Servant chokes on his spit. Not even coming up for air, he’s so enraptured by your taste.

“Oh god, right there,” you gasp, fingers winding around the silvery strands of Servant’s hair. “So good for me, just like that.”

He whimpers at your appraising words, pushing back into Kamukura and forward into you like he can’t decide between you both. An almost endearing struggle as a frustrated whine wends from his throat. Cock throbbing between his legs as his knees threaten to give, screaming from between your thighs as Kamukura finds that one sensitive spot and _abuses_ it.

It’s almost like a domino effect. Servant painting the sheets white as he comes with a shaking jerk and a scream. You follow close after, sparks going off behind tightly closed eyelids as the world buzzes with static. And while you can’t exactly tell when Kamukura falls over the edge, the stilted jerk of his hips and Servant’s drawn out groan are enough of a clue.

And you just lay there, after the fact. Sweaty and spent with a glowing starburst in your chest that fizzes like golden champagne. Something bordering on contentment seeping into the very core of your being as you settle back on moth eaten sheets and revel in the normalcy, the _domesticity_ of it all. Floating on Caribbean shores with sea salt on your tongue and sunshine on your skin. A burning salaciousness that licks up your jittering thighs, satiated at last by the two men that matter most to you in this world.

And you care, so very, very deeply. Whispered words of adoration and warm cloth on soiled skin. Chaste kisses pressed to foreheads and cheeks and sweat slick collarbones until you’re dizzy yourself. It’s so easy to care for them. To want to draw them close and grant their every wish. To comb Kamukura’s maelstrom of hair back with your fingers, to press a kiss just at the underside of Servant’s jaw. To want to wind yourself around them both until you can never, ever be separated.

And if this were truly a movie, if the world was really so generously benevolent; you’d look at Servant’s goofily grinning face and find a name at the forefront of your mind. Syllables falling from your tongue as things become just that much more... _normal._

(You look at Servant, you kiss his forehead and turn to do the same to Kamukura.

No name is recalled).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay they’re happy now! im sure nothing bad will happen ever again
> 
> (also, you NEVER have to starve yourself to botttom. there are many healthier alternatives to doing so, and your partner should never shame you. don’t do what nagito did. that’s basically my life motto all the time)


End file.
